


you're every song i ever sing

by hereisthepart



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, mentions of anxiety and stage fright, musical theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereisthepart/pseuds/hereisthepart
Summary: This is what happens when you spend months stuck in someone else’s orbit: you memorize the weight of their steps as they shuffle across ancient theatre carpet, bounce in place absentmindedly on a Marley-covered stage, pound hard against pavement with their head thrown back in laughter. Their presence starts to feel less like a TV being left on in the next room and more—Real. Attainable.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Yoon Jeonghan, Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. overture: willkommen! bienvenue! welcome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **in which everyone is a little extra, but it's okay, because this is musical theatre.** rated m/ships tagged for future parts. mingyu is trying to fend off an anxiety attack at the start of this, but it doesn't happen often. fwiw, while i did research the theatre scene in the RoK, this is also largely based off my own experience/career as a tech working in the industry where i live. for most parts, i'll list a rough """glossary""" of words that might be unfamiliar to some people. see today's in the end notes. (also—every other part will be MUCH longer than this, I promise lol)  
>   
>  **FIC title is from[singin' in the rain's  
>  "all i do is dream of you"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3yP8sEKg7j7KoW7G47BPIQ)  
> PART title is from [cabaret's "willkommen"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4iM7g6DqruDMTo5AcU6qHS)**  
>   
> as always, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ljhmyg)/[curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/ljhmyg).  
> be safe, be well, be kind 💞  
> 

* * *

The sound of the stage door slamming shut is startling. 

Mingyu staggers away from it, in the midst of attempting to stave off an anxiety attack. He tells himself **one, two—inhale slow—three—inhale _slower_ —**

He gets as far as six before he rips the sweater he's wearing over his head, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to get the panic digging talons into his throat to _stop_. The sweater slips from his fingers, and he barely makes it around the corner before his legs start to buckle. He stumbles hard onto one knee and a pile of dirty slush before palming the brick wall to push himself into a sitting position directly underneath the loading dock, in a mostly cleared section of dry, cracked pavement. 

Knees pulled up to his chest, Mingyu muffles a curse against them, feeling stray bits of wet gravel stick to his forehead. He deflates, breathing heavy through his nose, wiping away the dirt with a rough, impatient fist, and digs his elbows into the meaty parts of his thighs instead. Lightheaded and out of breath, Mingyu buries his face against clasped hands and sends out a prayer, one last-ditch attempt at dealing with what is all actually just a very long, very _vivid_ nightmare. Or perhaps that he died on the spot upon hearing the news, and this is just what’s left of his spirit, doomed to forever roam the wings. Anything’s possible—anything’s _preferable_ to the corporeal world at the moment—

At the moment, Kim Mingyu really, _really_ hates theatre.

He’s not sure how long he sits there; it’s hard to keep track of time when your soul has disconnected itself from your body like a passenger jumping off a rapidly sinking ship. His phone vibrates in his back pocket every once in a while, pinging with what has to be a flurry of exclamation-filled texts, but he ignores them all. Has to, for now. 

The stage door eventually opens and shuts again. 

Somehow, he knows it’s Jihoon before Jihoon even speaks, hesitantly calling out Mingyu’s name, a question mark dangling at the end. 

(This is what happens when you spend months stuck in someone else’s orbit: you memorize the weight of their steps as they shuffle across ancient theatre carpet, bounce in place absentmindedly on a Marley-covered stage, pound hard against pavement with their head thrown back in laughter. Their presence starts to feel less like a TV being left on in the next room and more—

Real. Attainable.)

Mingyu doesn’t lift his head from where it’s been buried in his arms, but he offers up a pitiful squeak of despair in response. It takes a second, but he finally sees a pair of beat up black Nikes in the tiny field of vision allowed through the triangle of his folded up elbow. He makes another noise, this one forlorn, reaching out and deciding against it in the next moment, the movement of his hand halting. He holds his breath, and then exhales with a short burst of courage to grasp the hem of Jihoon’s shirt. 

He tugs at it gently, his other arm wrapped around his head, eyes covered with the crook of his elbow. “Mnfh,” he mumbles nonsensically, which translates roughly to: **_fuck ‘the show must go on’_**.

Above him, Jihoon pats his head, fingers trailing delicately through the hair at his temple, tucking behind the shell of his ear. _There, there,_ Mingyu imagines he must be saying. _You’re not a **complete** loser._

Mingyu lets his arm fall, bundling both against his chest this time, not watching as Jihoon settles next to him, mindful to avoid the slush. Mingyu’s sweater is sloppily folded in his lap, one sleeve trailing across Jihoon’s thigh like a straggler. 

Jihoon fiddles with it, flips it on top of the uneven fold and says, “Tried texting you.”

Another one of those pathetic little bleats and he briefly knocks Jihoon in the shoulder with his forehead before tipping his head against the brick wall instead. Mingyu shuts his eyes. Jihoon knows. He _has_ to know, because tech _always_ knows. Might’ve even been there when Josh found out, and the crew has probably already been talking about it all morning—

All of Jihoon’s levels for soundcheck are going to be _so fucked_ , maybe, Mingyu doesn’t really understand audio, but he _does_ know they’re running out of time and this has probably set them back a few hours today, at _least_ —

Humming, Jihoon’s shadow looms suddenly closer. He presses the pad of his thumb to the wrinkles between Mingyu’s brows, pushing in, the rest of his fingers naturally framing Mingyu's cheek. The gesture is startlingly gentle; Mingyu can’t help the soft inhale he makes in return, opening his eyes. They cross to look up at Jihoon’s hand, and then dart to Jihoon’s face.

He drops his hand to Mingyu’s knee instead with a small, close-mouthed smile, and then the pavement, pushing up and straightening with his back against the wall once more. He pulls out his phone, awkwardly tilting the screen away to type something, and Mingyu’s guess as to who he’s texting is correct when Jihoon says, “Shua-hyung said they’d start notes out of order today. You can stay lost for a bit longer.”

Still unable to find his voice, Mingyu merely exhales in a gust and hopes Jihoon gets the gist. Eyes canted to the side, he watches Jihoon open an app on his phone, some tap game involving animals and food orders. He sits there, doesn’t say anything else, just taps away at his screen, serving 8-bit plates of food to ostriches and bears. 

He does, however, lean into Mingyu’s space in a way that is deliberate, their arms and hips and knees pressed together, Mingyu’s sweater bundled in his lap, Mingyu’s _body_ on fire. It seems ridiculous that this is what makes him glitch, that this is what makes the voice in his head that tells him he is going to fail shut up, even if it’s only for a breath, long enough for a shiver to run down his spine. 

Reality rears its ugly head with the next breath; Mingyu’s inhale this time around is shaky. Jihoon doesn’t look at him, but his hands still. He clicks his phone off so the screen goes blank, waiting. And, with all the abject horror of an understudy being forced to live up to his potential via their lead actor meeting an _unfortunate_ patch of black ice, Mingyu finally takes a deep breath and says:

“He broke his leg, hyung. He actually _broke his leg_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **levels** \- audio speak for "i can't hear what they're saying clearly, let me adjust these tiny knobs and buttons on my audio console until i do!"  
>  **notes** \- stage manager speak for "you fucked this scene up, do it better next time"  
>  **understudy** \- performer casted with a small part, whose role it is to also memorize a lead's part in the event the lead cannot fulfill their duty. (ftr - the lead is not another member of seventeen!)


	2. not an inch more room to self-destruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night he finally learns he’s been cast in a bit part, he and Minghao convene in their living room, a bottle of wine open between them bought from the _nice_ section of the discount mart a couple blocks away. Mingyu is on his back, sprawled out on the couch with one leg strewn across Minghao’s lap and the other hanging off the cushion, bouncing on the toe of his slipper. His laptop is perched on his stomach, a crick in his neck as he rereads his last email for the hundredth time, staring at _understudy_ until it seems less like a word and more like a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, well hi. i'll keep this short because, um, that glossary lol. as a little note, some of theatre "dialect" is regional-specific; i draw as much as i can from researching rok theatre, but i am using terms most familiar to me, so i know they're used correctly. 
> 
> part title is from [spring awakening's "totally fucked" . ](https://open.spotify.com/track/4F4jOOUGIt0eyaUnZXYwhQ?si=oQfpzZk7Qlao55e23n7c6A)  
> 
> 
>   
>  **black box** \- a small theatre space, bare bones  
>  **"dramaturgical binders"** \- dramaturgy itself involves (among other things) researching the history and culture of the current work. if there is a dramaturge for a show, they will normally hand out necessary information to the cast as a tool to develop their interpretation of a work  
>  **wings** \- offstage, out of sight of the audience  
>  **fresnels** \- a type of lighting fixture/lens  
>  **first electric** \- electrics are part of **rail/the fly system** , basically what allows lights to be in the air onstage  
>  **stagehand** \- someone assisting the show offstage/backstage  
>  **spike marks** \- cloth-like tape placed on the stage to mark where things go (it can also glow in the dark, referred to as glow tape!)  
>  **Marley** \- dance floor made of vinyl that can be rolled out in panels and taped down over the _actual_ stage. it's heavy as shit and awful to put down, like the world's worst 300lb fruit roll up.  
>  **main curtain** \- self explanatory, but has a dozen names. can also be called grand, grand curtain, grand drape, main drape, etc.  
>  **callback** \- a second audition  
>  **bit part** \- small role  
>  **“on fifteen”** \- josh means they have a 15 min break. if someone gives you time left, you respond “thank you [amount of time]” so they know you’ve heard. if a stage manager says this to you, you better say it back or they will say it again, but angrier  
>  **runners** \- _run crew_ is anyone in tech that helps run the actual show. runners in this specific case is referring to people setting scenes on stage during blackouts/scene transitions, etc   
> 
> 
>   
>  as always, you can find me on   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/ljhmyg)/[curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/ljhmyg).   
>    
> 

### ACT I

  


INT. APARTMENT/BATHROOM – DAY

  


“I thought people only did that in beauty CF’s.” 

Mingyu looks up from the bathroom sink, where he’s splashed cupped handfuls of water onto his face. The glare he sends Minghao is ineffectual at best, mostly because there’s still water clinging to his lashes. He thought so too–but he figured anything’s better than what he was doing _before_ that, which was clutching the edges of the sink and hoping really, really hard that the drain would open up and swallow him whole.

A blurry-edged Minghao leans against the door jamb, arms crossed loose over his chest, mouth hitched up at one end. Mingyu’s glare dissolves with a sigh. Stony-faced, he dances wet fingers against the apples of his cheeks; when Minghao laughs through his nose, Mingyu presses them against his eyelids instead. The pressure is a welcomed distraction, too, and he drags his hands down until they pull his cheeks with them, swinging back to the mirror to get a good look at himself, then back to Minghao. 

“Wanted to see if it’d make me feel better.” 

Minghao arches a brow. “Did it?” 

“No,” Mingyu says, glum. He lets his arms drop to his sides. He tries not to sound too needy when he adds, “Please give me a pep talk.” 

Gentle fingers reach out, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, still hovering in the doorway; he doesn’t have to be asked twice. “You want to have a career doing something you love.” Mingyu wrinkles his nose. “You know what you're capable of.” **Ugh.** Debatable. “You were going to have to audition again at some point.” 

Mingyu doesn’t know _what_ kind of face he makes in response to that, but it makes Minghao laugh, not unkindly, and shuffle into their cramped bathroom. He curls a hand over Mingyu’s shoulder, chin on his knuckles, and swipes a bead of water trailing down Mingyu’s temple with the pad of a finger. Their eyes meet in the mirror. 

“I can still come with.” 

“Don’t you have a date?”

With a huff, Minghao backs away once more, waving a hand. “It’s a meeting with a choreographer hyung–”

“Who you’ve had multiple meals with every weekend for the last four weekends–?”

Careful, Minghao says, “I don’t think they count as dates if most happen before sunset and we talk about budget priorities during them.”

“They do if you add little emojis after his name on your phone,” Mingyu points out, fairly reasonable, he thinks. He's desperate for the subject change so they can continue to talk about something that isn’t him or how this is the first audition he’s going on in a year, or the way he is probably going to be a massive failure his entire career. If he even has a career left.

“There’s only one emoji,” Minghao says, “and it’s a tiger and he made me add it.” 

“Yes, and then you came home and told me about it because you thought it was cute.” 

Minghao gives him an unaffected shrug. “It _was_ cute.” He flicks Mingyu in the temple, this time. Gentle. “Stop deflecting.”

“I think we’re _both_ deflecting,” Mingyu replies, running wet hands through his hair. He has heard through _very_ thin walls the exact number of times Minghao has rewound the same five-second clip of a dance tutorial (thirteen) just because his _choreographer hyung_ laughed. Plus, the one time he came over, Minghao got so distressed beforehand that he knocked one of Mingyu’s plants to the ground and Mingyu had to re-pot it (RIP) _and_ steam clean the floors. _Then_ Minghao made him watch TV with them the rest of the night like some sort of neutered middle blocker, awkwardly sat between a tongue-tied best friend and an extremely flirty Kwon Soonyoung (he should have come with a warning). 

Minghao lifts his eyes to the ceiling when he smiles and says, “Maybe,” and then, singsong, “if you don’t want to talk, I won’t make you,” as he leaves, a singular statement that makes Mingyu almost immediately tense up again. But soon after the front door shuts, his phone beeps from where it’s precariously perched on the edge of the sink.

He reaches for it and drops heavy onto the rim of the tub, clutching his phone in his hands like a lifeline as he reads the incoming message. _Gyu-yah fighting!!!_ Minghao’s text says. And then, a moment later: _I already looked up directions last night and can be there in 20 if you need me to 🚗_

A rush of affection blooms. 

_I think hyungnim would cry if I stole you away from him_

It takes half a second for Minghao to send back 🙄🖕🏼. Mingyu laughs. 

Then he drops his head into his hands and mutters, “ _Fuck_.”

His phone buzzes against his cheek again, but he sets it down on the rim of the tub and folds over, head buried against his pajama-clad knees. Next to him, the phone slips, drifting into the tub and clanking noisily against the opposite side. Mingyu follows after it, legs spilling out, chin to his chest. 

The ringtone goes off after a couple minutes and, with a beleaguered sigh, he paws for it without looking. Mingyu jabs at the answer button and holds his phone up to his ear with a certain sense of resignation, listening to Minghao’s leveling voice fill the room, echoed by the speakerphone in his car: 

“Hi. Get out of the bathtub and go put real clothes on.”

Mingyu closes his eyes and crosses his feet at the ankles. His heart is ramming against his ribcage; he presses his free hand over his chest and asks idly, “Be honest, are you psychic?”

“No, but I know how you spiral.” 

There’s a long moment of silence. 

“I don’t want to mess up onstage again,” Mingyu murmurs. The pounding in his chest deepens, a threatening drumbeat for something that might not even happen–he has to get cast first to fuck something up, really. He opens his eyes and breathes out through his nose. Inhale, exhale, focusing on the way his diaphragm expands. 

Minghao doesn’t say _you won’t_ , because Minghao is a realist. And because he’s a realist, he _does_ say, “One step at a time. You’re great at auditioning.” 

“I used to be good at the other stuff, too.”

“You’re still good at it.” 

Mingyu squints, even though Minghao can’t see him. “You have to be nice to me, you’re my best friend.”

“No, I don’t,” Minghao laughs. “I don’t get paid nearly enough to be nice to actors in my spare time.” 

That, at least, Mingyu knows. There’s something to be said for trusting someone who refuses to pull punches because they love you. He fiddles with the drawstring of his pants. “Hao-yah…come to my next one? I don’t want you to come to this one,” he insists, because he honestly doesn’t, “but–the next one. Please?”

“Of course I will,” Minghao tells him. The echo stops. “Got to the cafe. Soonyoung is here already. You’ll be okay?” 

“He’s early because he likes you.”

He knows Minghao is rolling his eyes. He just does. “I was going to bring you back a treat for doing well, too.” 

“ _You’re_ early because you like him,” Mingyu adds, laughing a bit, trying to heft himself out of the bathtub with one arm, stumbling when his foot catches the edge.

“Please place this confidence somewhere else,” Minghao volleys, “and _go to your audition_.” 

“Ah–well, but–I’m not wrong. You don't even need to have five production meetings to talk about the budget for a _black box space_. Those all could have been emails.”

“Oh, my– _hyung_ ,” Minghao’s voice gets a little louder now, demanding. On the other end of the line, faraway, Soonyoung cheerfully says, _hi–ah, sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone, I saw you from–!_

“It’s only Mingyu. Do you want to go on a date with me?”

Mingyu knocks into the door jamb and makes a noise of surprise, stifling a snort. “ _Hao_ –”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says, immediate, maybe a bit breathless. “Can we pretend this is one? Let’s start now. Is that okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Minghao directs at his phone, “depends on if Mingyu is going to his addition.”

What a true and absolute act of selflessness from Xu Minghao. Mingyu tries not to laugh and leans his back against the wall of the living room. “I am now.”

“ _Nice_.” Soonyoung sounds strangled, like maybe he’s hanging halfway inside the car. “Hey, can you come outside now so I can kiss you? Can we do that? Anyway, thanks, Mingyu-yah. This seems like it's your fault."

“I love you, I have to go now,” Minghao tells Mingyu. He sounds like he’s grinning. “Message me if you need me.” 

Mingyu says goodbye, hangs up, and holds his phone in both hands for a few moments. He smiles, and lets someone else’s happiness carry him to the stage, for today.

  


INT. AUDITORIUM/STAIRWELL – DAY

  


Mingyu sits by himself in an empty stairwell leading down to where auditions are being held, hugging his legs, chin on his knees. He’s currently trying to convince Minghao via text that he is not _avoiding_ everyone downstairs. He’s giving himself a clear headspace, that’s all.

He hadn’t been there long before he’d seen a number of familiar faces: Im Jinah, who he heard just filmed a pilot, which does _nothing_ to settle the itch in his veins, newly-graduated-from-university Daehwi, a cute kid who used to be in one of Minghao’s classes before he stopped dancing.

And then, like a still frame out of one of Mingyu’s nightmares, one of his old castmates from his last show. She’d noticed Mingyu five minutes after he’d walked in and proceeded to very obviously ignore him. Mingyu figures he deserved that one. So he hid in the stairwell instead.

 _I’m NOT hiding_ , he texts Minghao.

**Confront your issues.**

_I don’t want to ☹️_

The phone slips out of his hands in surprise when the double doors to the floor below the one he’s loitering on swing open and someone skips up the stairs, saying, “Oh–!”

He’s reaching for his phone, head bent awkwardly to see who it is. Jiwoo is peering up at him from the landing, eyes wide with surprise, but a happy, little smile in place. The smile Mingyu gives her in return is almost completely involuntary–she played his younger sister in a play at a small show years ago, and he’s had a soft spot for her since. 

“Trying to find a vending machine,” she says with a pout, taking a seat a couple steps below Mingyu, at an angle so she can see him. About _him_ , she adds, “It’s been awhile.”

Mingyu makes a noncommittal sound of agreement instead of what he wants to say: _I was too embarrassed to show my face_. _Maybe_ Minghao knows exactly what Mingyu is doing right now, but Mingyu doesn’t want to admit that. Jiwoo picks her legs up on the step and digs her elbows into her knees, cupping her heart-shaped face until her cheeks squish.

“There’s a rumor,” she starts, and Mingyu leans forward in interest. “They’ve already cast the lead, supposedly. An idol from a boy group. I heard a couple people talking about it.” 

Well. He exhales out a little gust of breath. That’s a relief, at least. “Which group?” 

“Don’t know, newly debuted, I guess. Just know he’s famous. Or about to be.” Her mouth forms a moue, a wrinkle working its way between her brows. Jiwoo stretches her legs out in front of her now, fingers linked together in her lap. There’s a moment of hesitation before she adds, “I heard...what happened.”

Sometimes theatre feels like a very small circle with Mingyu at the center of it, a bullseye trying to fend off a dozen arrows at once. He lifts a shoulder, even more noncommittal than before. “Oh, you know,” he tells her, even though he doesn’t, actually. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No one made me forget all my lines but me,” Mingyu says with a self-deprecating laugh. Jiwoo doesn’t join him–the furrow gets deeper, in fact. She almost seems angry at him for laughing at himself. 

“We played off each other well,” she says in this sweet, determined way. “It’s always nice to see a friend. I’m glad.”

Mingyu hunches forward, shoulders crowding in, trying to make himself smaller. “Ah. Me, too.” 

“Really?” 

“Not really,” he laughs again, quiet, tossing her a look over a shoulder. “But it is nice to see you."

She does smile at that, reaching out just enough to poke him in the knee, making his legs sway towards the wall. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone now,” she says, using the handrail to haul herself up. “I really do need to find a vending machine. Sorry for disturbing you.” 

“There’s one on this floor,” he tells her, looking up and gesturing behind him as she makes her way towards the landing. 

Jiwoo gives him another smile and waves cheerfully at him just before she pulls open the doors and disappears. Mingyu’s phone goes off again. 

_If you’re nervous, do your breathing exercises_

He stares at the screen until his eyes cross, then stuffs it back into his pocket without replying. Minghao will just assume he’s _practicing mindfulness_. He’s not sure what he’d say, anyway. 

He likes going on auditions. Nothing about that has changed over the last year. But he doesn’t know how to explain that none of this hesitation is even _about_ today. Every time he thought about starting again, this was never the part that tripped him up. He’s not terrified about _auditions_. He’s terrified about everything that comes after. There’s a sense of foreboding now, tacked onto the end; a massive wave threatening to crash into shore while Mingyu is just trying his hardest to have a nice day at the beach. 

It wasn’t always like this. Not that Mingyu never got nervous, before. Sometimes he thinks all he ever _is_ offstage is a frenzied mix of anxiety and self-doubt, buried under a security blanket stitched together with a dozen dramaturgical character binders. His body eternally tensed in the wings, waiting for a cue, adrenaline running through him like electricity. 

But he _loved_ that. Because it always disappeared the moment he felt stage light warming his skin. 

And then, almost a year ago, he froze up.

He’s still not sure why. Just that, that night–halfway through the run, no less–he felt warmth on his skin and it burned, somehow. A lightning strike cracked him in half and melted his feet in place, with kerosene dripping down from fresnels on first electric—a sudden fire ripping through months' worth of memorized lines, a lifetime’s worth of earned confidence. He opened his mouth to speak and there wasn’t a single fucking thing in his head but ash and silence. 

It’s almost worse that there wasn’t a reason. It’d be easier for Mingyu to blame it on _something_ –nerves about a new role, or an antagonistic relationship with a director, maybe. Instead, he has to live with this knowledge: that he walked out on stage, felt a couple hundred pairs of eyes on him, and _choked_. 

That he failed just because he failed. 

After that, he dropped out–officially, for _health reasons_. He’d had an understudy, and no one really fought him on it, which he tried not to think too hard about. He sent out a cast-wide email apologizing, and then ignored _everything_ , too shamefaced to do much but slink back to his apartment with his tail between his legs. 

Minghao let him hide away for two weeks. Then he crawled into Mingyu’s bed before a seven AM call, allowed Mingyu to bury a frown into the crook of his neck, and whispered, “You need a paycheck, and I need a stagehand.” So he’s spent the last twelve months, give or take, building sets, setting props down on spike marks, rolling Marley up between dance shows. 

Anything to get him as close to the stage as possible without going over. ( _If you can see the audience, the audience can see you._ ) There’s a precarious gap between stage right and the main curtain to stumble between, but he hasn’t managed to freefall yet.

He knows he can’t avoid it forever. Minghao was right–at some point, he was going to have to think about his future again. Which is why he’s here now, with newly printed headshots and an updated resume, not sure if he’d rather get cut or cast.

The double doors behind him open and shut; Jiwoo reappears, humming under her breath, a full water bottle in hand. She stops short when she sees Mingyu and pauses before breaking out into a beatific grin.

“I changed my mind, I don’t want to leave you alone,” she says in a bright, chirpy voice. Mingyu can't help the smile that tugs at his mouth. Jiwoo holds out a hand. 

Mingyu hesitates; she waggles her fingers and says, “Let’s go.”

He holds out an arm, tentative, and Jiwoo wraps her hand around his wrist and does her best to lead him downstairs. 

(Before his audition ends, they ask if he’d be comfortable understudying. A million trains of thought whirr to life at once–why are they asking, unless they aren’t interested in _something_ in him? Mingyu clears his throat, and tries to sound sure when he lies and says yes.)

  


INT. APARTMENT/LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

  


He gets a callback. 

True to his word, Minghao does come to that one. He knows the director, and manages to sneak into the back of the auditorium where they’re holding auditions in a fluorescent green jumpsuit giving off an eerie glow, a light for Mingyu to look for in the shadows. Mingyu sings a different song this time, just to showcase range, and when he walks out into daylight again he feels–okay. A little hopeful, maybe. 

The night he finally learns he’s been cast in a bit part, he and Minghao convene in their living room, a bottle of wine open between them bought from the _nice_ section of the discount mart a couple blocks away. Mingyu is on his back, sprawled out on the couch with one leg strewn across Minghao’s lap and the other hanging off the cushion, bouncing on the toe of his slipper. His laptop is perched on his stomach, a crick in his neck as he rereads his last email for the hundredth time, staring at _understudy_ until it seems less like a word and more like a nightmare. 

Turns out the rumor Jiwoo told him is true–they’d cast a fairly popular newcomer idol as the lead, and Mingyu is–

He whines and thumps his head on the arm of the couch, wincing at the general state of his life. Minghao lowers the volume on the TV, set to a drama neither of them are paying attention to. He gives Mingyu a look behind his wine glass.

"I guess you could tell them you're actually uncomfortable with being an understudy," he says, but not in a way like he believes Mingyu will do it. 

(He felt guilty enough backing out of the play last year, even though once he’d gotten home, the thought of saying another line on stage filled him with so much immediate dread he couldn’t stave off the oncoming anxiety attack. He sat on the very same sofa he is now with his head between his legs before Minghao, gentle, concerned, rubbed his back and pleaded, “Let me write the email for you.”)

Mingyu stares at him over his laptop screen. 

“Yeah,” Minghao sighs. “I know.”

  


INT. REHEARSAL SPACE/KITCHEN – NIGHT

  


The lead is… difficult. 

“He’s the _worst_ , babe,” Mingyu hears Josh–their stage manager–whisper furiously into his phone. The only reason Mingyu knows he’s talking about the kid is because he’d left for the day after running through his scenes, even though there’s still an hour of rehearsal left. 

They’re both in the little kitchenette off their rehearsal space, Mingyu puttering around and cleaning up after a snack break and trying his hardest not to eavesdrop. Josh is leaning against the doorway, having just grinned and waved goodbye, saying _no, I completely understand why you can’t stay_ before he turned around and Mingyu watched his face pinch into something decidedly more murderous. His phone rang right after. 

Someone says something over the line. Mingyu wipes up crumbs with a wet napkin, glancing over when Josh replies, “I would _love_ to tell him he’s not famous enough yet for his ego, but I enjoy my job. Sometimes.” A pause. He brightens a bit. “Drinks after work sounds amazing. Where?” 

Mingyu straightens, crumbs and dirty napkin in hand, realizing the tiny garbage bin isn’t where it usually is. He feels a tap to a shoulderblade and spins; Josh jerks his chin towards the pantry and mouths _thank you_. To his phone, he says, “They’re on fifteen now.” 

He tosses the clipboard tucked under his arm onto the counter nearest the doorway with a clatter, then hikes himself up next to it, sliding Mingyu’s script over to the opposite side in the process. Mingyu starts stacking plates and cups in the sink; Josh says _love you_ and hangs up after their goodbyes. Then he leans his back against a kitchen cabinet, squints at Mingyu, who has looked over in the ensuing silence, and asks, “Why are you doing that?”

Mingyu blinks. “The...dishes?” he asks, sponge in hand. “Because I wanted to.” 

Josh closes his eyes. 

“Everything okay, hyungnim?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Just imagining a world where every actor picked up after themselves.”

A laugh escapes Mingyu before he can help it, dry and amused. Josh is smiling when he opens his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone what I said on the phone.” 

“I wasn’t listening,” Mingyu says with a shrug and an easy smile, going back to the dishes. It’s Josh’s turn to laugh this time, and he kicks a leg out in Mingyu’s direction as the sound of shoes pound up the back stairwell. 

They both turn towards the entrance when a voice calls out, “Shua-hyung?” casual, friendly. Mingyu inhales spit and chokes when he sees the voice belongs to an audio guy–Jihoon, Mingyu thinks his name is. 

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Mingyu resolutely scrubs dishes that don’t really need to be _scrubbed_ , trying to stifle his coughs. They’ve met before, because theatre is a fraction of a size of the world around it. He was part of the tech crew for a small weekend show Mingyu was in, and Mingyu has definitely heard Minghao say his name more than once when he talks about work. His hair is grey now, though, messy and falling into his eyes. 

He doubts Jihoon would remember, mostly because Jihoon was slipping a mic pack down the back of Mingyu's shirt and barely even looked at him, except to loop the pointsource around his ear. He was on tiptoe, a headset on, moving with all the efficiency of someone who has done something a hundred, a thousand times before.

(Jihoon did look up directly at him. Once. Gently taped the mic to his cheek with careful fingers and asked, “Feels okay?” and Mingyu’s only stumbling, nonsensical thought at the time was _**oh no you’re cute**_. He nodded blankly, and Jihoon just patted his shoulder and moved onto the next person.)

With a soft smile, Josh says, “Hey. Audio isn’t scheduled to come in for cues until next month.”

“Calm down, I can read a schedule,” Jihoon tells him. “Hannie-hyung said my wallet was here.”

“Oh! Yes.” Josh hops off the counter, but slows to a stop in confusion. “Is he outside? I just got off the phone with him.”

“He said, ‘I refuse to climb up steps in my spare time,’” Jihoon quotes, resting an elbow on the counter. “We’re picking up Seungcheol-hyung at yours, then taking a taxi to the bar.” 

Mingyu puts a couple dishes back, too quick; they knock into each other noisily, and he chances another peek to see if Jihoon and Josh have noticed. Jihoon glances over just as Josh says, “I’m coming after this ends. Wallet’s in my backpack, wait here.” 

The dishes are done. Mingyu stares at the running water, and then shuts the faucet off and leans both hands on the edge of the counter for a few moments before clearing his throat and turning around. His script is under Jihoon’s elbow. 

Jihoon is on his phone with his free hand, tapping around. He looks up when Josh shouts _back in five_ , peering into the rehearsal space, head tilted to survey the room, and then at Mingyu when Mingyu robotically replies with, “Thank you, five!”

Their eyes catch each other’s, Jihoon’s curious as he clocks Mingyu clasping his hands together, stretching out awkwardly, before returning to his phone. It makes Mingyu’s wires scramble, but he doesn’t stop looking. Also, he _really_ needs his script. 

He opens his mouth to ask for it. Jihoon’s eyes dart back up to him.

Mingyu closes his mouth and dreams of spontaneous combustion. 

Jihoon stares for a long moment. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking–if he’s trying to place Mingyu, or figure out why the hell Mingyu won’t stop staring at him without saying a word like a _freak_. Mingyu thinks maybe one end of Jihoon's mouth twitches. It could be a smile, a smirk, a trick of the shitty, fluorescent overhead light. Not that it matters either way, because Josh finally bounds back into view with his wallet. Jihoon takes it, and it’s hard to hear what they talk about with all the blood rushing to Mingyu’s ears, but he doesn’t imagine the glance Jihoon shoots him one last time before he turns and heads out. 

In front of Mingyu, Josh picks up the clipboard from the counter and scoops Mingyu’s script up too, looks at the top and says, “Oh, here,” just as his phone beeps from his back pocket. 

He juggles the scripts, digging around until he comes up with his phone, dropping it flat onto the clipboard with a sigh to check it. His brows knit together, an odd smile darting across his mouth; he looks out towards the entrance, where Jihoon’s just disappeared, and then at Mingyu. 

With the same, strange smile, Josh hands over the script and asks, “Do you know each other?” 

“Ah... not really,” Mingyu says, meek. “He worked on a show I was in once. That’s it.”

Josh grabs the pen tucked behind his ear and makes a note on his clipboard, nodding, as if Mingyu has said something extremely important. He’s back to typing on his phone when he throws out, “You’re friends with Xu Minghao right?”

“Yeah.”

Josh looks up. He’s not smiling anymore, but somehow still sounds like he is, or at least has heard a very funny joke. “I need runners for a show in a few weeks. It’s backed by a bigger company, so the pay’s pretty good. Interested?”

“It wouldn’t conflict–?” 

“I wouldn’t have asked if it conflicted with rehearsals,” Josh points out, still sounding like he’s trying not to laugh. Mingyu really wishes he knew what the punchline was, because he’s a little bit afraid it might have to do with him. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

“Great,” Josh says, beaming, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Mingyu relaxes, just a bit. His hand slides off, and he checks his phone again before heading towards the rehearsal space. “By the way, you have one minute if you need a breather or something.”

This time, Mingyu thinks about the crooked lift of Jihoon’s mouth.

“Thanks, one,” he says, faint, and follows Josh in.

* * *


End file.
